still life
by milk ghost
Summary: Butch dies again and again, but Buttercup is the only one who ever remembers. Something wicked this way comes—don't forget to remember. — butch/buttercup
1. i

**notes:** i dont know how to explain this. imagine kenny mccormick with a side of the extreme supernatural? beats me. this is like 2 years old. anyways no powers!au jsyk.

 **disclaimer:** no.

x

i—let me tell you a story i don't really know; one bright day in the middle of the night, two dead boys got up to fight;

x

 _{if I change and start_ _to fade, all the green in my eyes desaturate}_

x

Townsville is a quaint, quiet town in the middle of the middle of the United States. Nothing relatively interesting happens in Townsville. The biggest event of the year is the pickle festival, introduced by the mayor several years prior. The very same mayor Townsville has had for years upon years.

It's got the normal small-ish town feeling to it, of course. There's a diner on Main Street that serves slices of fresh apple cinnamon pie and a plate of the best baby back ribs around. The hardware shop around the corner has been a family hand-me-down from three generations back. The police force consists of the sheriff and two deputies—maybe even three, but only on a good day. Friday Night Football is the most anticipated event of the season, and Townsville never fails to disappoint. Pokey Oaks High's sports rivals are the Cityville Cougars, and they've been arch enemies for decades. Everyone and their mother turns up for a good ol' football game of the Porcupines versus the Cougars—especially a home game. Teenagers still do stupid things like partying after winning one of those very same Friday night home games.

And sometimes, bad things still happen.

Brick sighs into the early November air, watching it materialize before him. He's making his way out of the bleachers and away from school property as soon as physically possible. He doesn't even really like football games, but Boomer was on the team and dammit, even Butch had been here to support their little brother.

So, after being guilt tripped, by _Butch_ of all people, into coming to this dumbass football game to watch his blond brother fumble around the field, he's ready to go home. It's not like Boomer even noticed his presence, due to his attention being devoted to a pretty cheerleader with blonde pigtails, a pair of white and blue pompoms clutched in her hands.

He scoffs as he walks out into the parking lot and attempts to find his car and not get run over by newly-driving sophomores and possibly drunk juniors. Nobody spares him a second glance, which isn't unwelcome. Everyone is always preoccupied and absorbed in their own thing, whatever it is. He scowls at some of the stoner kids lazing around their beat-up clunkers and smoking near the back of the lot and wonders what this world is coming to.

Something's always felt off to him. Something about the town seems wrong, though he isn't sure why. Nobody else ever seems to notice it, or if they do they keep it to themselves. Whatever, he always figured, he'll be out of here before too long. He has his sights set on Harvard or Stanford, high aspirations that his mom and dad have always praised him for. He's going to make something of himself and get out of this backwater town.

Brick fumbles around in his coat pocket for his keys when somebody bumps into him. He hears a quiet swear as his keys clatter to the ground.

"Sorry man," Buttercup Utonium, resident weird girl of Pokey Oaks apologizes. She hurriedly stoops to pick up his keys from the cracked pavement and shoves them into his hand. Then she's gone, black leather jacket and dark choppy hair hiding her in the night.

He stares after her—this girl he's known since childhood—and realizes that's the most civil thing she's said to him in probably twelve years. In fact, she hasn't really talked to anyone for a long time. Not since—

He unlocks his car and slides into the driver's seat, taking a deep breath of the crisp air and letting it out. There's a picture in his dashboard compartment which he never opens, simply because it's there. She's there.

"Hell," Brick mutters under his breath and lifts his head, crimson eyes staring back at him from his rearview mirror. "Dammit."

Whatever. It didn't matter anymore. She was gone and in her wake was a withdrawn Buttercup, a quieter Bubbles, and a father who locked himself away in their basement for days.

So, the formerly active and sports-loving Buttercup hadn't taken her sister's death so well. She had become kind of reclusive and he didn't see her around a lot, but whatever. It wasn't his problem.

Brick starts the car and puts it into reverse. He just wants to go home and forget about not forgetting.

x

Butch watches the dark-haired girl quickly leaving the bleachers. Some of the guys around him begin to snicker and shove at him. "There goes the witch—you think she's going to cast a spell?"

"What a cold-hearted bitch."

Something snaps inside him and he shoves back at the one of the guys he usually hangs out with. It's not so friendly. "Shut the hell up, you dick."

"What's got you all worked up?" Randy huffs, cigarette smoke trailing out between the gap in his teeth. "Or should i say who?"

Butch clenches and unclenches his fists. Suddenly everything about these guys is making him nauseous. "Leave her alone. It's not funny."

"What?" Keith starts in surprise. "Big ol' Butchy boy is sticking up for the goth girl now? What's this world coming to?"

He remembers seeing her at the funeral—wearing a dress for the first time in at least eight years. Butch grinds his teeth. "Whatever man, just shut the fuck up about her."

"You gettin' with her or somethin? She is pretty damn fine, if it weren't for her shitty personality. Who knows, maybe that'll finally loosen her up some—"

Randy never gets to finish, because suddenly Butch's knuckles are cracking against his nose. He lets out a pained screech and falls back over the metal bleachers, blood dripping all over his outstretched hands. Randy wails in agony, nose definitely broken. Keith watches Butch in muted shock, not even moving to help his fallen friend.

Butch shakes out his hand and turns on his heel. Suddenly, he doesn't feel like partying with these douchebags anymore tonight, or maybe at all, ever. Instead, he shoves his hands into the pockets of his jacket and makes his way toward the stadium exit. Maybe he'll just go home. They really killed his mood, those jerks.

The dark-haired teenager scowls as he scuffles through the streets. His thumb brushes over the screen of his phone and he contemplates calling Brick to come pick him up, but decides against it. His older brother probably wouldn't come, anyway.

Brick was somewhat of an odd soul—sort of like a grumpy old man and frustrated hormonal teenager all morphed into one hot-headed dreamer of a disaster. He'd been that way for as long as Butch could ever remember. Resigning himself to walking the rest of the way, he watches as Townsville passes before him. Houses of all different shapes and sizes go past as he walks down the sidewalk, some even still have their Halloween decorations up. He scoffs at a yard full of gag tombstones and turns away, feeling worse by the minute. Damn, he's not even had anything to drink tonight and he's already feeling sick.

As he rounds the corner, he notices something in the middle of the street. He has to cross over here, anyway. Quickly looking both ways, he steps out into the road and leans over to look at it.

The sight of it makes his stomach churn. Numbly, he picks it up and stares as it dangles from between his fingers. A red ribbon, most likely from the Halloween setup on the other side of the street, but it's still unsettling. It reminds him of her. Or rather, the lack of her. How everything had changed after she had died.

Suddenly, something bright makes him tear his eyes away from the ribbon. Butch turns his head to see what the source of the blinding light is.

He never even has time to get out of the way.

There's only the screeching of tires, the blinding beams of headlights, and then nothing at all.

x

"Hello again, Butch."

x

Across town, Buttercup suddenly finds herself staring at the alarm clock on her night stand, unnervingly awake. It's 10:38 pm. She hadn't gone to sleep that long ago. Scowling, she pulls the blankets over her head and attempts to ignore the queasy feeling in her stomach.

x

It's the middle of the night when their home phone rings.

"Dammit Butch," the redhead hisses, as he drags his body out of bed and stumbles to the kitchen. His mom and dad are away on some couples getaway retreat, and Boomer is still out cold. Brick

fumbles around for the phone. "If you're drunk off your dumb ass again I _swear_ —"

Switching on the lamp, he blearily looks at the screen and rubs the heel of his hand over his eye. It's a local number that he doesn't recognize calling their house at 1:17 am.

"Hello?"

"Is this the Johnson residence?"

Immediately he sits up a little straighter. "Yes."

"This is Deputy Lumpkins down at the station. Is this Brick? Are your parents home?"

 _Fucking hell, Butch_ , he thinks. _Did you land your sorry self in jail?_

"No," he replies. "It's just Butch, Boomer, and me for the weekend."

Something isn't right. He can tell that something isn't right. This doesn't sound like a call about picking up his dumbass brother for being a public nuisance or for underage drinking. There's something that Lumpkins doesn't want to tell him. Brick hates that more than anything. He feels as if he's 5 again and adults don't think he can handle the truth. He tries to get his bearings. What time was it again? Where had Butch said he was going to be?

After what seems like an eternity, Deputy Lumpkins heaves the biggest sigh Brick has ever heard. The man sounds like he's carrying the weight of the world. "Brick, listen to me. I'm afraid to inform you that there's been an accident involving your brother."

Brick's heart has suddenly found its way to his throat. "...what?"

"...you'd better come down to the station, Mr. Johnson," Lumpkins tells him, sympathy and something like fear in his voice. "Would you like us to send someone to pick you up?"

"No," Brick replies almost immediately, already back in his room and grabbing the first pair of jeans and shirt he sees. "No, I'll be right there."

x

Brick stares at the clipboard in his hand. It slips out of his hand and clatters to the floor. The entire world around him immediately begins to crumble again, for the second time. Only this time it's worse. He can't breathe. Oh God, he can't breathe. Deputy Lumpkins calls for someone to help as Brick sinks to his knees, fingers scraping his scalp. God. His _brother_. His little brother.

The clipboard has landed face-up. The crisp and new report from the hospital mocks him. He thinks that he is going to vomit.

Name: Butch Theodore Johnson

Birth Date: March 17, 1998

Time of Death: 10:38 pm

Cause of Death: Massive internal bleeding, blunt force trauma to the head, damage to the spinal cord, spinal shock

Date: November 2, 2016

x

 _{it's my head not my heart that's strayed}_

x

 **end notes:** listen, i am not a doctor, but. also i took some liberties with information because i do what i want (within moral obligations).


	2. ii

**notes:** it's 2:32 am. of course i havent proofread this. eugh.

ii—back to back they faced each other, drew their swords and shot each other;

x

{ cause you're a ghost at the most, a set of empty bones }

x

Buttercup dreams.

It's prom, and her sisters are dancing. Brightly colored dresses and streamers and lights all blur together into one enormous mural of a memory. And it's a little, well, _weird_ that she remembers any of this anyway because she wasn't _there._ Yet here she stands, amidst the laughter and awkward teenage hormone fest, and it all feels so real.

Bubbles keeps eyeing the blond in a gray tux who is currently doing the sprinkler, and Buttercup rolls her eyes at the football star.

She witnesses some loser spike the punch and then get chased out by a disgruntled chaperone covered in a suspicious substance, and then accidentally bumps into some dancing couple. The thing is, no one seems to notice her. That is, until she hears someone shout her name. Eyes wide, she turns on her heel, heart in her throat.

Blossom is standing there, baby pink prom dress and hair curled, and she smiles. There are tears in her eyes, and blood is everywhere. "Buttercup," her quiet voice breaks through the chaos and Katy Perry blasting over the PA system. "It's Butch."

Buttercup decides she's actually going to be sick—that she's going to vomit all over the gym floor. She stumbles backwards, eyes on fire, but Blossom is still there. She looks sad, so sad, and she's grasping something in her extended hand. Hesitantly, Buttercup looks down at it.

Forget throwing up, her entire body feels sick.

It's a bracelet.

A stupid friendship bracelet that she'd made back when she was 5, back when she had just met these new brothers who had moved into town, back before he'd become an asshole, back before—

"You have to remember, Buttercup," Blossom places the bloody bracelet in her younger sister's hand. "No matter what happens, you can't _forget._ You have to save him."

Buttercup wakes with a start, covered in a cold sweat, hand empty and the memory of her dead sister clinging to her.

Their dad is at her door. He looks even more grim than she's seen in a year, and that's saying something. "Sweetheart," he begins, voice gentle and so very tired. The clock reads 1:03 am. His eyes wander to her dresser, where an indent ical friendship bracelet to the one in her dream sits. Her stomach rots. "There's something I have to tell you."

Down the hall, she can hear Bubbles crying.

x

"We think it might have been a drunk driver," Deputy Lumpkins tells Brick. His voice is quiet and rough, two adjectives that should never go together. The words grate over Brick's entire being, and he shudders. He hasn't stopped shaking since he read the report. "It was the big game tonight, plus we always have at least one or two stray drunks around. We're looking for any evidence now. We'll find the person responsible for this, Brick. They won't ever hurt anyone again."

 _Again_? Brick wonders. But what about before? What about his brother? His dead brother? Oh god, his _little brother._ He should've been there. He should've driven Butch home. He'd known that Butch had been at the game, and he'd left him there and gone by himself. Oh god. If only he'd driven him home. He should have driven him home.

His little brother—who was afraid of the dark and slept with a nightlight until he was 13, who still watched Saturday morning cartoons, who was always more excited about Christmas out of any of the brothers, who still wore a friendship bracelet given to him years ago by a girl who didn't even talk to him anymore—was _dead_. He was dead and he was never coming back. He would never try to sneak out or into the house ever again. He would never make them sit through _It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown_ or eat all the Lucky Charms or cheer Boomer up ever again. He was gone.

None of this would have ever happened if Brick had just _taken him home_.

How was he going to tell Boomer? What would happen with their parents? Who could just hit someone with their car and drive off? Who could just kill his baby brother? How could Butch die, when earlier he had just thrown his AP calculus book off the porch and declared that he was going to live in a cave for a career? How could he really not be coming back?

It was just a sick joke, right? Butch had always loved to play the most asshole move pranks. Or maybe it was a dream. He would wake up any minute now because Butch was snoring so damn loud. It couldn't be real. There's no way that what is happening is real.

Then he looks down at the bloodied bracelet and wallet in his hands, both belonging to his brother.

Brick throws up.

x

The Professor arrives at the station to pick Brick up and take him home. 'For some rest,' Deputy Lumpkins had said over the phone, but everyone who knew what had happened wouldn't be sleeping at all. Buttercup walks in behind him, dresses in pajamas, because she had insisted on coming. Because she had had a terrible dream and there was no way this could actually be happening. There was no way that the douchebag she had known for years was actually gone. There was no way that her dead sister had actually been right. Because that would mean that life was way more complicated than she had thought, and she wasn't ready for those implications.

Then they walk into station, and immediately she knows. Brick is slumped in a chair by one of the desks, head in his heads. There's a familiar bloody bracelet twined in his fingers, and she falters in her step.

"Dad," her voice cracks, _"dad."_

The Professor puts his arm around her. "I know, honey. I...I know."

There was no way Butch could be dead. The sheer asshole energy he radiated surely would have chased death far away. Except that, she knows that he isn't a total asshole, and maybe that's the problem.

"Brick," John Utonium kneels in front of the unmoving teenager. "Brick, I'm here to take you home, okay?"

He lifts his head, eyes bloodshot and face flooded with grief. "...I can't…he's still...my brother is back there, Professor Utonium. I can't just...I can't _leave_ him. I can't leave him again."

He looks up at Buttercup, and suddenly she understands. Brick had been at the game, she knows because she bumped into him there. Butch had also been there, because she had seen him get into a fight in the stands with those bastards that he hung around sometimes. But they hadn't left together.

"Stop it," she slams a hand down, because she doesn't know what else to do. Because she's been here before. Because this is Brick, and Brick never blames himself for anything. He's a pretentious dick like that, and now is absolutely _not_ the time for him to start. "Stop that. It's not your fault, Brick. You didn't know. No one could have known what was going to happen. It's not your fault. Don't do that to yourself."

She doesn't understand. How had she dreamed this? How could she save someone who was already _dead_? If that were the case, Blossom would be here with them, too. What the hell did she need to remember so badly?

Butch was dead.

Nothing was going to change that.

x

It rains the day of his funeral.

Buttercup stares out the window of the car and picks at the hemline of her black dress. He was always a dramatic bitch. He probably would've loved the fact that this already depressing day was also cold and rainy. He would have also given her so much shit for wearing a dress. She can almost hear his wolf whistle now. She wishes she could hear it now.

The cemetery is packed—his parents are there, Brick and Boomer, friends, some out-of-state relatives, local townspeople, even most of the Sheriff's department. She stands under a black umbrella with her baby sister and their father as the pallbearers bring his coffin out of the hearse and set it over the grave. Buttercup brushes her fingers over the bracelet on her wrist, knowing that Brick had also slipped Butch's back on. He'd always worn it for whatever reason behind their knowledge, after all.

His mom and Boomer can't stop crying, their dad looks more sober than Buttercup has ever seen her dad's fellow professor, and Brick looks like death incarnate. The preacher says some nice words about heaven and all that, but it doesn't really matter. They all want Butch alive and on earth, not anywhere else.

His casket and tombstone are black. They make a stark contrast against the white lilies that everyone throws onto his casket, one by one. Bubbles tosses her lily in and then goes to hug Boomer, and their dad makes his way to give his condolences to his colleague. Buttercup approaches Butch for the last time, heels sinking into the mud, but it's nothing compared to her heart dropping into her stomach. She nearly crushes the stem of the white lily in her hand.

The last time she had done this, he had been by her side. She'd never seen him so gentle before.

"I miss your stupid face, you jerk," she murmurs quietly. "You made your little brother cry. You…" her voice trails off, "you...made me cry."

Buttercup attempts to blink away her tears, but they won't stop. "I can't believe I'm crying for you. I won't forget you, okay? I promise. Look, I'm even wearing the bracelet. And you're wearing yours. So we're friends forever," she chokes out, "forever, okay? You asshole. Don't be dead, Butch. Wake up so I can punch you in your douchebag face and you can have a free pass to laugh at me in this dress. Come back to Brick doesn't do something stupid and die too, and Boomer doesn't refuse to eat anything."

She pauses for a moment, swallowing her tears. "If you see Blossom, say hi to her for me. And don't bother her too much, because I guess now her peace is gonna be disrupted. Help Brick not to hate himself too much, if you can. I guess this is goodbye, you stupid idiot."

Buttercup crouches and carefully places the lily on top of his casket and brushes away her tears with the sleeve of her coat. "I'll remember you."

She stands there with her family and his, watching as he's lowered into the ground. The cemetery is completely silent, save for the pouring rain.

x

A month later, Butch walks into first period English Lit, and Buttercup screams.

x

{ you're shallow and empty and filled with regret }

x

tbc


	3. iii

**notes:** when you declared that you were going to do a spanish minor but your friends doubt you and therefore cause you to doubt yourself. woo. we love that. i also listened to a "grunge forever" playlist while writing this.

 **notes2:** *aggressively pretends as if i didn't disappear from ffnet for months on end* this is _fine._

iii—a deaf policeman heard the noise and ran to save the two dead boys;

x

{ stuck in my sheets, an accustomed coffin }

x

Buttercup takes one look at the corpse strolling in through the class door and suddenly she's screaming. Everyone, including Mr. Mundsen, turns to look at her. She doesn't care—in fact, she's more concerned as to why no one else is screaming with her. It's 10:34 AM on a drizzly Thursday in December, and her dead ex-best friend just walked into the room like he hadn't been dead for a month. Why was no one else freaking out? Townsville was weird, sure, but the dead coming back to life wasn't exactly under the 'Normal' category.

Mr. Mundsen seems genuinely concerned for her well-being. "Ms. Utonium, are you quite alright?"

Buttercup grips the edge of her chair, heart about to burst out of her chest. Everyone's eyes are still on her, but she can only focus on a pair of dark green ones burning into her. Was he a ghost? Had his tragically murdered ass come back to haunt her? Was that why no one else was having a breakdown about the possible impending zombie apocalypse? He looks normal—just as alive as she'd seen him before he'd been killed. There's no blood, no bruises, no nothing.

"Uh," he speaks, and everyone turns to look at him. "I'll uh, take her to the nurse?"

Mr. Mundsen nods, casting a worried glance over at the girl who looks like she's seen a ghost (and she has, dammit, she's looking right _at_ him). "Alright, Butch. Go on ahead."

He walks over to her, then, and Buttercup pinches herself so hard that she draws blood. She does it over and over and over in the short span of seconds that it takes him to walk to her desk. And then he is there, standing over her, just like the good old days, except these days have not been good as of late. He takes her arm and pulls her up, and she thinks that maybe she might be dead. Maybe she's in a dream—a nightmare—and she can't wake up. She tries to remember doing anything that might have led her to fall into a coma, but comes up with nothing. She'd barely even left the house recently.

Butch seems to be unaware that he is supposed to be six feet underground. He even laughs. "Come on, Sunshine. You look like you're about to keel over."

He leads her out of the classroom, but he doesn't take her to the nurse. She feels like she's in a trance or a daze. His fingers feel so warm and real against her skin, not cold and stiff and decaying. But something about him feels off, and she thinks she is going to vomit all over his beloved shoes. Butch just keeps on walking. Vaguely, she registers him telling the secretary that he's taking her home because she feels sick—that her dad will call with permission soon. Then they walk right out the door and down the steps and they just keep walking.

They walk and walk and walk until they are away from the school and, suddenly, she comes back to her senses. She rips her arm away from him and holds it like he's burned her. Goosebumps prickle her skin as the chilly December air bites at her bare arms, and his lingering warmth turns to fire under her fingertips. She can see the tiniest bit of the friendship bracelet peeking out from under the sleeve of his hoodie. She hides the wrist with its match behind her, because for some reason, she feels betrayed.

She wants this to be real—for this to be Butch, the boy who used to stick gum in her hair and put worms into her pudding cups. Butch, who bit into a jawbreaker and broke his two front teeth when they were seven, all because she said he didn't have the guts to do it. Butch, the hurricane of a boy who seemed to understand her in a way that no one else did. Butch, who stood by her at her sister's funeral and held her hand and didn't look while she cried. Butch, whom she had witnessed them inter just about a month ago. They threw dirt onto his coffin and all of the lilies on top. He should've been buried. He was supposed to be gone.

"You're dead," she raises her eyes to his. "You're dead and I'm going crazy."

Butch looks at her with mixed emotions—confusion, and then relief. "Oh, my god."

"You were killed during a hit and run. We had a funeral for you. I—" she stops, here, a little choked up. Maybe because she's talking to a figment of her imagination. Maybe because she's lost it so much that he seems so real. "We haven't seen Brick in a month. He thinks it's his fault. Boomer doesn't smile anymore. You asshole. You—you weren't _supposed_ to die, okay! You—!"

She grabs a hold of his hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric. She probably looks insane to anyone passing by. The drizzle has turned into rain, and here she is: on the sidewalk near the park, drenched, holding onto nothing but painful memories that never seem to let her rest. She's never been good at letting go, and maybe her grief has turned her crazy. Butch wraps his fingers around her hand and stares down at her.

"Buttercup, it's me," he promises, voice pleading. "You're not crazy. I _promise_ you, you're not crazy. Please. _Please_. I need you to listen to me. Please fucking listen to me."

Something about the manic urgency in his tone makes her pause in pulling away. He's also never said the word 'please' to her before this. He takes this as his cue to get as much in as he can while she's still here. "The last thing I remember is walking home from the game. There were these bright lights and I—that's it. The next thing I know, I'm waking up in a fucking coffin in the goddamned cemetery dressed in a suit. Shit's _terrifying_. I think I'm claustrophobic."

Buttercup really does wonder if she's died, but Butch just keeps talking. He's really freaking out, and she notices a scar partially hidden by his hair that matched one of his head wounds from the accident. Something inside her feels extremely uneasy.

"There was no dirt on top of my coffin. It was like it had been there but suddenly someone decided to dig it all back up. I saw my own gravestone. That was real fucking surreal. You said someone _ran me over?_ What the fuck?" he runs both his hands through his hair, and now it's him who looks as though he's seen a ghost. "And then I'm really fucking confused, right? Because I just woke up in a coffin, and suddenly it's December, and it's been a month, and I don't remember any of it? And I walked into my house, and my family acts like nothing ever happened, and I—"

He looks at her then, sheer panic in his eyes. "Buttercup. I died a month ago and no one but you remembers that it even happened."

x

They sit across from each other, knees barely touching as Butch scarfs down a burger.

Buttercup doesn't take her eyes off him the entire time. It had been true, what he had said. No one that they had encountered seemed to know that Butch had died almost a month ago. They greeted him as if nothing had ever happened. As if he hadn't been murdered and they'd never caught his killer. This couldn't be happening. There is no earthly way that he is here, sitting across from her, yet he is. Something about the fact that she's the only person who remembers that he died (other than Butch himself) seems peculiar. Why only her? Why was she the only person in Townsville to remember what had happened? It made no sense.

She still vividly remembers Blossom and the dream about prom. She recalls her dead older sister telling her not to forget. Blossom had told her that she had to save him. But that made no fucking sense whatsoever, seeing as how Butch had died anyways and now he was alive again with no explanation that either of them could come up with.

"You're not going to eat my brains?" she mumbles, still afraid to indulge in conversing with him, because this whole thing was more than bizarre.

Butch laughs shortly, relieved. She hadn't talked much since he'd poured his confused and frightened heart out to her. That had scared him even more than coming back from death. "Not a zombie." he pauses. "At least, I'm pretty sure. You could, y'know, give me a physical to make sure I'm not rotting anywhere."

He gives her a suggestive smirk, and she kicks him in the shins so hard that he flinches. "Thanks," she says dryly. "Think I'll pass. I'd rather have you eat my brain. Yours seems to be rotting at a remarkable speed."

"Geez. Being dead for a month sure makes you hungry," Butch runs a hand through his hair, and she catches sight of the scar again. "Not that I ain't glad to be alive, but why am I back? Did they ever catch the bastard that killed me?"

Buttercup leans back into the booth seat. "No. No one saw it happen, and there weren't enough clues at the crime scene. They never solved your...murder."

Butch sets down the rest of his burger and shoves it away. "Never thought I'd die at the ripe old age of eighteen," he laughs, but it's more painful than humorous. "Or that I'd be murdered. Or that I'd come back from the dead with no explanation and only one person would even remember that I died."

She reaches across the table in hesitation. She's not sure whether to put her hand over his or punch him. Instead, she taps the scar on his temple. "Hey. We're...we're going to figure this out. We're going to find who killed you, and we're going to figure out how you're alive, and we're going to figure out why no one else remembers what happened."

He looks at her, unsure, because nothing makes sense anymore. Finally, he relaxes. "Yeah...yeah. Okay. Everything is fine. I'll be fine. Hey, maybe I'm like that guy from _The Crow_."

Buttercup snorts and rolls her eyes. "You only wish you were that guy from _The Crow_ , dickweed."

"Hey! I could be that badass!"

She shakes her head, and something within her starts to feel okay again. But there is something else, something just far enough out of her reach that makes her think that this isn't over. She can't shake dream Blossom's words, or the lingering feelings she's had since Butch had been killed. Something in Townsville was very, very wrong, and she and Butch were the only ones who noticed it.

x

{ i swear that i'll be fine }

x

tbc.


End file.
